Selfish bastard
by BBCRules95
Summary: Watson is stuck in a collapsed building with a sick and wounded Holmes, whcih gives them the chance to think about their friendship a bit more than they usually do. I suck at summeries, so give it a go!
1. Chapter 1

**Firstly, I'm feeling down, so I decided to be evil and get one of my fav characters hurt again. I really have to take it out on someone and Watson's best friend is a better target than mine. **

**Secondly, I'm re-reading all of Conan Doyle's stories and I've just re-watched the movies – twice, and I find Watson and Sherlock absolutely awesome, so I thought I'd have a go at something about their friendship.**

**I hope you enjoy it! Do leave a comment, I'm always looking for ways to improve as well as encouragement!**

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Sherlock Holmes, the man famed for his ability to spot the tiniest details, to predict the moves of his opponents, the man whose attention allows nothing to escape. The man who failed to notice as the thug he though was dead, raised his hand in a desperate attempt to avenge his own suffering, a hand that was clutching a gun, with his finger shaking on the trigger. What he did notice though was an explosion on one end of the room, the yell of his companion – doctor Watson and he definitely noticed the agonizing pain in his gut as the metal of the bullet met the flesh. He was suddenly woken from his internal monologue and the sounds and images became more vivid. Another gunshot followed, this time fired by Watson. Holmes realized that the only exit from the warehouse was buried by the collapsed part of the building. But something was wrong…he realized what it was as soon as his knees buckled under his weight and he slid down a nearby wall, onto a dust-covered floor. How blind did he have to be for this to happen? He accepted no excuses, although he had a few: exhaustion, a concussion and a dozen bruises.

He rolled onto his back, pressing a hand against the wound, even though he knew his pathetic attempts to help himself would be useless. He needed a proper medic. Where the hell was Watson? _Blood loss: too big. Internal damage: most likely extensive. Likelihood of being found in time: none. Chance of survival: estimated 18-22%. Conclusions: this is not amusing._

Holmes must have dozed off, since the gentle nudge on his shoulder came as a surprise.

'Holmes? Holmes, can you hear me?' That had to be Watson. His voice was filled with concern. One look at his friend was enough to tell him that he had a difficult night ahead of him. The fact that they were stuck in a collapsed building was of little help. The man didn't reply. Watson shook him delicately, but all he got in reply was a muted moan, coming through Sherlock's gritted teeth. His eyes remained closed. Watson pressed two finger against his friend's neck, thank God he was breathing. The doctor took a swing and landed a hard blow on Holmes's cheek ._How professional…_ His eyes immediately snapped open. However, Watson wasn't sure whether this was something he wanted to see. They have been in trouble many times, but never had he seen his friend in so much pain, let alone never had he seen him so _scared._

'Watson? ' the doctor gripped Sherlock's shoulder reassuringly.

'I'm right here. You're going to be ok, do you understand?' Watson realized his own voice was shaking. Probably because he did not believe his own words. He might have been a good friend, but he was also a good doctor. Now was not the time for sentiments. He was not too fond of what was before his eyes. Sherlock's shirt turned from being white into looking crimson red and soaking wet.  
He took off his beloved scarf, folded it and pressed it hard against the wound. His attempt to stop the bleeding resulted in Sherlock's cry of pain. He closed his eyes again, gritting his teeth even more and moved his hand down, to push away that of Watson. He was supposed to help him as a friend, not torture him even more. His breathing became hard and labored. He was wondering whether the building collapsed on top of his lungs, because inhaling air was becoming more difficult and painful every second.

'Holmes! Open your eyes. Focus on me!' Watson tried to boss Holmes around just to keep focused himself, but his attempts failed. Holmes was keeping his eyes shut. 'Sherlock…please open your eyes. I know you can hear me. Come on, chap.' The doctor was surprised to find that his friend listened. Maybe the doctor was just starting to imagine things, but a glimpse of a smile seemed to have crossed Holmes' face.

'Focus on me, ok. Tell me something. How about…that book you were reading on a train!' Holmes knew that the doc was trying to keep him awake, but he couldn't talk. Breathing itself was enough of a struggle. He just shook his head.

'Wa…Watson…it hurts.' He didn't even know why he said it. He was a professional, not a kid. 'It… hurts so…bad.' Watson was terrified to see, that the words escaping Holmes's mouth were no more than quiet whimpers filled with tremendous pain, that evidently required a huge amount of effort. Now Sherlock's entire body was shaking. 'Watson…please.' He stretched out his hand toward Watson's which was still pressing the scarf against his stomach and was now covered in blood as well. 'P-please…' The doctor was terrified. He had not even known that Holmes knew the meaning of this word. He didn't even know what the other man wanted him to do. Holmes tried to push his hand away again, but he was so weak he could barely keep awake, let alone struggle with a healthy man. 'Pointless…Leave it…just…please…' His hand was still hanging in mid-air. Watson wanted to help, but there was little he could do at the moment. A building just collapsed on the outskirts of London, someone should notice, shouldn't they?

'You uncomfortable, chap?' Holmes replied with a hardly-noticeable nod. 'Careful, this is going to hurt.' Watson propped himself against the wall and shifted Holmes's limp body onto his laps, resting his head again his shoulder, keeping the other hand pressed against the bleeding wound. At first, Sherlock's face turned into an agonized grimace accompanied by a silent cry, but seconds after they settled he murmured 'thank you'.

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**I am evil, aren't I? Tell me what you think and another chapter should be coming soon!**

**PLEASE, REVIEW AND GIVE ME MOTIVATION TO WRITE ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for the reviews! I love you guys. You absolutely made my day :DDD**

**And because I love you so much I wrote you another one. I hope you like it ;)**

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The moments they spent sitting in silence were probably the longest minutes of Watson's life. He could just pray for the police and medics to arrive at the scene as early as possible. He had to shake his friend every now and then to make sure he didn't fall asleep, to never wake up again. All the time, Holmes was gritting his teeth, but he had given up on trying to keep a straight face long ago. His breathing was irregular and he stirred repeatedly, as violent coughs shook his body more and more often.

'You know…' Sherlock started whispering. 'I meant it w-when I said I was sorry about Brighton.'

'Forget it.' Watson replied shortly, grabbing Holmes's writs, which again moved instinctively towards the source of the pain. No matter how hard he tried, the blood kept flowing freely and Watson knew that having a bullet lodged inside of him for so long couldn't be good for Holmes. He was surprised to find that the other man was still trying to speak.

'And…ab-bout Gladstone. And tell Mrs…Hudson that I didn't…'he suddenly stopped, desperately trying to catch another breath.

'You can tell her yourself.' Holmes was a fighter. Whether he was boxing or simply living and the thought of him giving up was scaring Watson deeply. 'They'll open the door in a while and I'll get you to hospital and you'll be _fine_. Understand?'

'Liar.' Holmes's voice was barely audible now. Seconds later he was curled up against Watson again, as another spasmodic cough shook his weak body. The doctor's heart started racing when he noticed a few scarlet drops of blood on the collar of Holmes's shirt. They both knew he had minutes. Maybe less. Watson couldn't bear the pitiful sight in front of his eyes. He wanted his arrogant, smart-ass and eccentric friend back. Holmes's eyes started closing involuntarily, which earned him another slap on his right cheek.

'Tired…' Holmes murmured.

'I know, but you can't sleep yet, old boy.' As a doctor and a soldier, Watson has been in many situations of this sort before. But it was always someone else. Not family, not friends…not his best friend. The doctor became completely overwhelmed by his inability to help and before he realized, he was raising his hand to wipe a lone tear rolling down the side of his face. They could have stayed at home, Mary could have made muffins. Oh God, Mary would not be happy about the scarf…He was brought back to reality when Holmes almost slid out of his embrace. He drew his friend closer to himself, trying to communicate without words that all would end well. But was he trying to convince Holmes or himself? The wounded man started mumbling incoherently and he raised up his hand, which was now hanging in mid-air.

''m sorry…so, so sorry…' Holmes was looking ahead, as if there was someone standing in front of him. ''s'all my fault Irene…sorry…' Of course, thought Watson. He shook Holmes's shoulder delicately to bring him back to the realm of the living. His eyes were half-closed again, and he was still mumbling and seconds later his incoherent words turned into pain-filled sobs.

'Hey, it's ok. You're ok…' Watson rubbed Holmes's shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. Failed attempt to be more precise. The shock, the pain and blood-loss were taking their toll. Watson could only hope that the wound had not got infected, but he realized that a dusty, collapsed chemicals factory was not the most sterile place for a sick person to be in. He thought he would turn delirious as well because of how worried he was.

'Watson, I'm cold…' Ironic: a few hours before Watson would have come up with a witty reply, just to get Sherlock's tantrum out of the way. Now he was wrapping his dirty coat around Holmes's shoulders. He pressed his palm against the other man's forehead and found what he feared most. Even though Holmes was trembling, he was burning up with a spiking fever. The doctor had no idea how come his friend was still alive. All he could do was whisper a quiet 'thank you' to whatever deity was looking over him. 'so cold…' another sob escaped Holmes's lips.

It would not be a lie to say that Holmes had never felt this bad in his whole life. He just wanted to sleep and leave all the cold and all the agony behind, but John wouldn't let him. Why wouldn't he let him? He was just making things worse. The wound hurt even more because for some peculiar reason Watson decided to put more pressure on it and the man he always trusted with his life was now lying to him. He knew he wouldn't be fine. He had seen people killed by less serious wounds. He had seen people die even when they were surrounded by doctors desperately trying to save their lives. And he saw the expression on Watson's face. If he was supposed to die, he decided that the faster was the better. Being cradled by Watson like a little child might have been comfortable ( minus his current predicament), but he wanted to keep his dignity. And dear God…_it hurt._ _God, if you're there, just make it quicker. _

Holmes was so absorbed with unsuccessfully trying to suppress his constant whimpering, that he failed to notice a pile of rubble sliding down a few meters away and a group of police officers followed by medics with a stretcher running into the building.

Watson couldn't help but smile with relief. But as soon as he looked down on Holmes him miniature smile turned into a grimace. Holmes was even paler than before, and he was clearly struggling to open his mouth again. _One last time_, though Holmes.

'W-watson. T'was an honour. And…thank you for being my best friend.'

As Holmes closed his eyes he could hear Watson yelling something at him, but the words became impossible to comprehend. His head rolled to his right side and landed softly against Watson's shoulder. The pain, the cold, the fear and the nausea he had been feeling were all suddenly gone. So was Watson's voice.

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**Please, don't even try to tell me that I am not evil. **

**It seems to me that Holmes and Watson have just lost the almost valuable piece :P Still, as evil as I am, I do have a tiny little bit of compassion remaining within me, so…**

**I would encourage you to *ekhem* REVIEW *ekhem*, and if you do review I **_**might**_** miraculously come up with a way of saving Holmes. Your clock is ticking and the game starts…NOW!**

**REVIEW and save Holmes!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey, thanks for all those who reviewed, liked and read. You make me want to write more! I hope you enjoy this one ;)**

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'Holmes! Holmes, wake up!' Watson had laid his friend's limp body on the ground and started shaking his shoulders and slapped him on the face a few times. 'Don't do this. I swear, if you die, I'll kill you!' Someone approached him from behind and tried to pull him away, but he refused to give in. Holmes needed him, he couldn't just leave his friend. Watson turned around to see who was so persistently assaulting him. He found Lestrade's concerned face and a group of officers in uniforms accompanied by a doctor and two nurses.

'We need to get him to hospital,' a lone voice said from behind Watson's back.

'No,no,no,no…' Watson mumbled to himself. 'No. Baker Street. Sheep extract. And I've got my kit there. He hates hospitals anyway. You come with me.' He pointed his finger at the doctor. They could have expected it. Holmes was too much of a genius for his own good.

'What are we waiting for then?'

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Mrs. Hudson though she was going to kill that man. What was he thinking? It was the middle of the night, and he was not only being noisy himself, but he even brought friends! Friends? Since when did he have friends? She put on her night gown and stormed out of her bedroom, straight into the foyer. She was about to start a lecture about Holmes's lack of decency and integrity, when the expression on her face softened and she gasped at the sight in front of her eyes. Holmes was being carried up the stairs by two men, his chest being worryingly still and bloodied. They were closely followed by doctor Watson, who called for Mrs. Hudson to come up, so that he could explain himself.

The flat was as messy as always and the desk in the center of the room was entirely covered by slips of paper with mysterious drawings on them. Apparently Holmes was experimenting with something again, but it didn't matter. Watson pushed everything off the table , so that the men could lay Holmes down and a can landed on the floor, causing a loud rattle. Watson ran into what used to be his office in search of the mysterious medicine that had already saved his friend once. He finally managed to find the metal syringe and sighed, praying that it would work. Holmes's heart had _stopped_. There was no question about it. The only one was whether it would ever beat again. The doctor unbuttoned Holmes's shirt and administered the drug. _Nothing_. They were waiting. And waiting. Seconds seemed like hours. _Nothing. _

Mrs. Hudson came into the room, covering her mouth with her hand and closely followed by Gladstone. The dog ran towards the table and licked Holmes's hand, which has slipped over the edge of the table and was now almost touching the floor. The only audible sound in the room was the barking of the dog. Watson could swear that the dog was trying to tell his master* to wake up, that he didn't mind how crazy and annoying he was, that he just wanted him to open his eyes. The doctor tried to stop Mrs. Hudson in the doorway, so that she wouldn't have to watch the grotesque scene, but the woman advanced into the room. As soon as she saw the battered and bloodied figure on the table, she turned pale and the most unexpected thing happened. She was crying.

'Mrs. Hudson. Holmes is…Holmes is _dead_.' As soon as those words left his mouth, Watson realized the corners of his eyes were wet. His shoulders were shaking, as he was trying to suppress the urge to break down like a small child in front of everyone in the room. _Holmes is dead_. This sentence sounded wrong. Holmes was many things: eccentric, irritating, insolent, arrogant but he could also be funny, faithful, smart and righteous. One thing he definitely was not, was _dead_.

Watson needed to keep a straight face. Lestrade and the other doctor suddenly became very absorbed with the state of their shoes, as they saw the reaction of Holmes's friend. The whole of Scotland Yard would mourn the loss, but they knew that most of all Watson would suffer. They wanted to give him space. For them he was an amazing detective. For the doctor he was a friend.

'We should inform his brother.' Said Watson and turned towards the door. 'I shall send a telegram immediately.'

He was about to leave, but before that, he needed to cast one more glance on the man he considered his closest comrade. At first Watson assumed that it was just his desperate imagination, but he could swear that Holmes's hand moved.

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***I know this is not exactly accurate, since it was Watson's dog but anyway…**

**I honestly think that Holmes should come after me for being so mean and leaving you with a cliffhanger again. Blame not me, but my French teacher!**

**The clock is still ticking and the game is far from over, so what are you waiting for? SAVE HOLMES!**

**All REVIEWS are more than encouraged and make my day an awful lot brighter :DDD**


	4. Chapter 4

**Firstly, thanks for all those who have reviewed. You give me sooooooo much motivation, not mentioning making my day an awful lot brighter! **

**Secondly, thanks to my friend Eric, without whom this chapter would probably not have come about. **

**It was the hardest thing to write EVER and that tells you something, coming from a person studying ancient philosophy. **

**I hope you like it, whatever 'like' means in this context…**

'Holmes? Are you…?' Watson caught his friend's wrist in his shaking hand and checked for pulse. The others in the room relaxed slightly as the doctor released a relieved sigh.

'S…stupid Watson. You c-can't even say if…a man is…is dead.' Holmes tried to smile, but his attempt to, concluded as more of a grimace. As horrible as Sherlock still looked, Watson felt for a moment like a little child getting his dreamt present for Christmas. But he knew he wasn't done yet. He needed to keep focused and professional, if he didn't want this joy to turn back into mourning and disappointment.

'Be nice. I need to get the bullet out,' Watson stated in a matter-of-factly manner. He knew Holmes wouldn't be happy. He was right. Holmes tried to get up, but his battered body refused to co-operate and he closed his eyes for a few seconds, fighting back a wave of nausea and pain.

'No, no,no,no…NO.' Holmes knew his moaning wouldn't change anything. He could plead and cry, but he would only make a fool of himself and Watson would come out on top anyway. He gulped loudly and found that seconds after it was still, his heart was now racing. _He hated doctors._ While the other medic took out a syringe, Watson realized how stiff and tensed Holmes's body suddenly became. He knelt down next to the table, so that he could look the detective in the eyes and murmured quietly: 'You'll be _fine.' _Fine? Holmes couldn't believe how insolent Watson was. Did he really think that the greatest mind in England belonged to an idiot? He felt as if someone had put a white-hot poker right through him and worse still, he could hardly breathe. Oh, and some stranger was about to stab him with a needle. 'Watson…' the doctor was now further away from him, but still managed to hear his friend's plea. He turned around and called the other doctor to come over.

'Can't you see he's struggling to breathe already? Are you sure you want to give him that?' Watson pointed at a metal syringe filled with morphine in the other man's hand. 'There should be whiskey in the cupboard. Let's try that. Mrs. Hudson, bring me a piece of cloth, would you?' The woman rushed out of the room and Watson went to search for the said whiskey. He didn't expect finding it to be a problem, especially since there was no one now to control Holmes's drinking habits. The woman came back quickly and Watson soaked the white piece of cloth with a considerable amount of the alcohol.

Holmes was _scared_. It made Watson eerily uncomfortable. He desperately wanted to whisper some comforting words, do anything he could to ease the detective's suffering, but he knew they had no time for that.

'Bite on that.' Holmes gritted his teeth and refused to obey the doctor. 'Stop making a scene and _bite on that now_.' The detective remained unmoved and looked at Watson accusingly. The doctor was nearing his breaking point, but he knew that when dealing with Sherlock Holmes you had to be persistent. 'Bite on that NOW and stop wasting my time or I'm going back to Mary straight away!' Watson wasn't sure whether the words would hurt more him or Holmes, but he had to find a way to stop him acting against his own good. Holmes was barely conscious, but the words _stop wasting my time! _kept playing out in his head over and over again. Even best friends has arguments and disagreed, but Watson was always there for him, whatever he did or said, and now suddenly he had become a waste of time? He had difficulty identifying whether it was the wound or the harsh words that hurt more. Sherlock Holmes was many things, but he _was not a waste of anybody's time. _He opened his mouth and felt a bitter taste of whiskey on his tongue, combined with the harshness of the fabric. Time seemed to be standing still. He didn't even notice as Mrs. Hudson appeared behind him and placed another piece of cloth, this time soaked with cold water on his forehead. He would never say it to her, but now that Watson lived with Mary he was glad to have her company. He realized that if there were things that remained unsaid, now was the best moment to voice them. Surprisingly the whiskey seemed to be working. His vision became a bit blurry and he felt as if he was watching the scene from behind a dirty window.

'Hold him down, make sure he doesn't move.' Watson's voice was muted and Holmes could hardly distinguish between the two doctors standing over him. He tried to stir slightly, but couldn't and he realized that somebody was pinning him to the table. Mrs. Hudson was still next to him, talking soothingly. She was telling him about the story she read in the paper that day, something about a break-in in East London. His mind, in spite of the shock, the pain and the whiskey, was still racing, trying to connect the facts, look for details and come up with a solution. He imagined the crime scene, replayed the confessions of witnesses…and then he heard a cling of metal and his heart almost jumped out of his ribcage. If his throat wasn't so dry he would probably try to protest loudly and if he had any control over his body whatsoever, he would run as fast as his legs could carry him. He was far from unfamiliar with incidents like this after years of working as a detective and he's seen what that cling of metal meant for many: even more suffering, sometimes madness or not uncommonly, dying anyway. Another attempt to move resulted in another wave of agony and a howl of pain mute by the cloth in his mouth.

'Ready, old boy? ' Holmes knew he didn't need to grace this with an answer. 'I'm sorry.' At first Holmes couldn't understand why Watson would apologize. None of it was his fault in the end, but as soon as the cold, harsh metal of the tongs touched flesh Sherlock was involuntarily cursing Watson, who could not hear the obscenities because of the cloth in his patient's mouth. He wasn't a child, he knew Watson was trying to help but what he felt before was not pain. No. Only now, as the metal instrument was pushed further down the wound, he got to experience what true, excruciating agony meant. His vision blacked out for a brief moment and before he had not even realized that he had enough strength to scream so loud. Mrs. Hudson was still talking, now mercifully cradling his left hand in hers, but he could no longer make out the words. Holmes tried to think about the robbery she read about. He couldn't. No matter how hard he tried, his mind kept drifting back to the crude, hard table touching his back, to the strong hands holding him down, to Watson saying something about taming the bleeding, to the overpowering agony now taking control of his whole body and the _fear_. He decided that if that's what dying felt like, he would rather stay alive. Surely, if even 'Nanny' was being nice to him, life couldn't be that horrible. Minutes seemed like days. Every single second he could swear, that the next his heart would not be beating any more. Watson tried to switch off his eyes, his ears, even the muscles in his body which caused his hands to shake. He could physically feel guilt, every time Sherlock howled in agony and when he tried to move, but ended up panicking because he didn't know why he couldn't. Watson had seen many heart-breaking things, but Holmes pointlessly _begging_ him to stop through the whiskey-soaked cloth, crying and sobbing definitely figured on the very top of his list.

By now everything was a pain-filled blur. Sherlock Holmes was not a religious man, but he started praying to whatever deity would listen to him, just to make it stop. Suddenly, everything did stop. The room was quiet, whoever was holding him down was gone and so was the cloth that he had in his mouth only seconds ago. Somebody replaced the towel on his forehead with a new one. For the first time Holmes felt tired, more than anything else. He was flowing in and out of consciousness as Watson dressed the wound with bandages. When he opened his eyes, Watson had taken Mrs. Hudson's place in a chair next to him. But wasn't he supposed to be a waste of time? All he wanted now was a proper bed and more whiskey. Much more whiskey. Or morphine. Or a bang on the head that would let him leave it all behind.

'Watson…I don't want to…to die ever again.'

'You won't, old boy. I promise. I promise. Now sleep.' So apparently he wasn't a waste of time after all. With that though embedded in his mind, he drifted away.

**OK, done. That was difficult. Let me know what you think and pretty please REVIEW if you want more! (or if you think I'm so horrible I should never write again and instead stick to my beloved Aristotle). **


	5. Chapter 5

**There you go, another one! Thank you all sooooooooooooo much for the reviews. I wish I could reply to all of them through PMs, but I hardly have the time to write these in the first place. (And therefore my love for Aristotle is steadily decreasing ****) I hope you enjoy this one, slightly longer than the others.**

_Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock._

Watson had always found the sound of a clock calming, but now the delicate ticking felt as if someone was drilling right through his head. 48 hours without sleep, levels of stress that he never even thought to be possible and the rasping, short breaths of his friend definitely weren't helping with relieving tension. He picked up a book lying on the bedside table and started scanning the first page, without even glancing at the title. Exactly two minutes later he realized that he'd been reading the same line all along. He put the book down and took a deep breath. Watson got up and started pacing around the room. Another two minutes passed and he sat back down. Conclusion: he was worried, as he had never been worried in the whole of his life. Back in the armchair, he tried to focus on breathing: wasn't that what the Eastern monks were supposed to do to calm down, as Holmes told him the other day? _In, out, in, out, in…_ Suddenly Holmes trashed with such force, that the cold compress on his forehead landed on the floor and the detective almost followed closely. He was mumbling something incoherently again, with an agonised grimace on his sweat-covered face. Watson knew he should go and fetch another cold towel, he needed to bring the fever down, but for a while he wanted to be able to be a good friend, not a good doctor.

He took a seat on the edge of Holmes's bed, and tucked the covers more tightly around the detective's shoulders. He also adjusted the pillows, so that Holmes would be more comfortable and could breathe more easily. The detective remained unmoved, and the only acknowledgment he made of the movement was a quiet grunt. Watson brushed his soaked hair from his eyes delicately. He felt as if he was seeing Afghanistan all over again. He tried to remember what he did back then to keep his mind off all the destruction he was seeing. _Keep yourself busy._

When he came back with another cold compress, he liked even less what he was seeing.

'No, please, please no…' Holmes was curled up, clutching the bed sheet desperately in one hand, as if his life depended on it, with the other desperately searching for the bandaged wound. 'Kill me…instead, please, please…' Watson put the towel down on the armchair standing next to the bed and bent over Holmes.

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_He didn't know how, where and when, but he was tied to a chair in a dimly-lit room. Something was hurting terribly, but he needed to identify his surroundings more closely before identifying the source of the pain. Nothing could spring to mind. The walls were bare, the floor perfectly swept and polished and the papers and books on the table were arranged perfectly neatly. There was nothing to give away where he was and why. Whoever seemed to have imprisoned him there, took care not to leave any indices and loose ends. Unless…loose ends…_

'_Good evening Mr. Holmes.' He could swear his heart stopped beating for a moment. Moriarty was alive. He was more than alive, he was right behind him. Holmes tried to control himself, not to give away how terrified he was, but he failed. The pain in his side was intensifying every second and by the time the professor was facing him, it turned back into the agony he felt when they had the misfortune of meeting in Germany. He looked down onto his shirt and even someone without his observation skills would have noticed that the prognosis was rather negative. He found it difficult to describe his shirt as blood-'stained'. It wouldn't reflect accurately how much trouble he was actually in. _

'_I hope Sebastian has not made you too uncomfortable, has he?' Moriarty smiled and sat on a chair facing Holmes. 'I would rather be able to enjoy this myself.' Holmes did not even bother to come up with a witty reply as he would have normally. Whatever he could say, it would come out humiliatingly shaky and lacking confidence anyway. He might as well not give Moriarty the satisfaction._

'_What do you want?' he rasped instead. He wasn't graced with a reply straight away. The other man just smiled at him. Then he leant forward and put a hand on Holmes's right shoulder, as a friend would, but they both knew that he wasn't trying to appear comforting. He patted Holmes on the said shoulder, perhaps with a bit more force that a friendly gesture would require and then sat back in his chair._

'_What I want from you Mr. Holmes, is to listen.' Holmes did not have to use his genius to predict that he would not like what was about to be said. 'You see, a little bird told me that your friend…what's his name again? Ah, that doctor Watson and his wife will be dining in the Royale tonight. As it happens, Sebastian, whom you might have met, has also made arrangements to be there. Now, that is a very interesting coincidence, wouldn't you say?' Moriarty was speaking, as if he was explaining physics to one of his particularly enthusiastic students. 'The world is such a small place these days, but it's becoming increasingly dangerous. All those accidents that happen and…'_

'_Don't.' Moriarty was interrupted by Holmes. _

'_Sorry my dear, what did you say?'_

'_Don't…do this.' Moriarty stood up and walked over to the fireplace in the corner, and picked up a metal, pointed bar, one end of which was white as a result of the heat._

'_Oh, I thought you were more of a gentleman, where are your manners? Where is the magical word?'_

_Holmes gritted his teeth. He was already dead. One thing he was always sure he would do, was keep his dignity before dying, no matter what. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was wrong. Watson was not just an anything. Watson was his only friend. His best friend._

'_Please, don't.' He spat out through his gritted teeth, half as a result of trying to suppress the anger rising within him and partly to stop himself groaning, because of the ever-intensifying pain in his side._

'_I am sure you can do better.' Now Holmes's eyes were locked firmly on the metal bar. He was sure he knew what the man intended to use it for. He never thought he would admit it, but because of the nasty images appearing now in his head, he started missing the metal hook._

'_I am…I'm begging you, don't hurt them. Please.' He could not go any lower. Physically or mentally, but Watson was worth it. His rational part was telling him it didn't matter anyway, but for once he let his emotions take over. If there was the slightest possibility of Watson being saved, he would pay for it with all he had…and a little bit more._

'_Very good….But not good enough.' Holmes could swear that the moment Moriarty sunk the metal bar in his wound, he could hear Mary and Watson's screams, followed by two gunshots. His mind told him that it was just his delirious imagination playing jokes on him, but he felt as if his heart was being torn out of his chest or broken into a million pieces. His best friend was gone. He'd be lonely for the rest of his miserable life. And what about Gladstone? He would never solve any cases without Watson, they would never play cards for the whole night again and go out to the pub for a pint or…he couldn't suppress the urge to scream any more._

'_Nooooooo, please, please, dooooon't!' Holmes's mind officially stopped working at that point. He didn't know what he was begging Moriarty for, to save Watson or to stop the agony? _

'Holmes! Holmes! Wale up, it's me. It's Watson. It's ok, you're ok.' To calm Holmes down and wake him up, Watson needed to remain calm himself. It was very difficult to accomplish though. 'You're at home, I'm here. It's fine, just wake up!'

'No...no, please!' Watson could barely make out the two words. Holmes desperately tried to move. Watson raised him up against the pillows and shook his shoulders.

'Holmes! Holmes!'

'Please…don't…' Watson had never seen Holmes cry so much in the whole of his life, as he did in the last 24 hours. He actually _never_ saw Holmes cry and he doubted whether he was capable of any emotions at all. He was fairly convinced that the tiny dose of morphine he had injected Holmes with, despite his common sense, has worn off and he was simply in terrible pain again. Watson would never have guessed that his own 'death' was causing the detective to find the situation even more difficult. Having no idea how else to wake Holmes up, he decided to try to put him back to sleep. The doctor sat himself on the bed, next to Holmes and allowed the detective to lean against him. He had to hold him firmly in place for a few minutes, but eventually Holmes stopped thrashing and sobbing and was only trying to speak incoherently through the fever. Watson was talking to him constantly, telling him he was safe, at home and with people taking care of him, while rubbing Holmes's shoulder delicately to give him the physical comfort he might need, in case he couldn't fully comprehend what he was being told. Watson put the compress he had bought on Holmes's forehead. He was convinced that he was hearing what he wanted to hear, but the one word he managed to catch out from the incoherent mumble of Holmes's was the word 'thank you'.

XXXXXXX

_He was going to die. There and then. Moriarty would kill him, as he killed Watson, but he would have to take it the difficult way. Nothing made sense anymore. His vision was becoming increasingly blurry, he couldn't feel anything anymore. He couldn't move. He was dead. But suddenly…he heard a gunshot and Moriarty fell dead to the floor. And seconds later Watson was there, kneeling next to him and helping him up. He still hurt all over, but _Watson was there!_ His eyelids felt heavy. But it was ok, Watson was telling him to rest. Fine. The only thing he managed to say before he passed into blissful oblivion was a quiet 'thank you, Watson'._

**So what do you think? Is it still looking good, or do you think my muse has abandoned me? Let me know whether you want more!**

**At the moment REVIEWS are the only thing keeping me up at night to finish all the work and get down to writing this! Review pretty please and I hope you liked it!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Firstly, thank you for all the reviews and PMs – it's really important for me to know that there are people out there reading this, otherwise I would have probably given up.**

**Secondly, sorry about the delay, but at the moment I end up having about 5 hours of sleep anyway, since my teachers seem to believe that sleeping is an overrated concept and give me TOO MUCH WORK! Argh **

One feeling that Watson hated was hopelessness. Things could be going wrong, but as long as he knew he could try to make it better, he would be fine. He tried all he could to make Holmes more comfortable, but nothing seemed to work. The detective could get half an hour of peaceful sleep at best, and then the panic, and the pain, and the sobbing and _the hopelessness_ started all over again.

He could feel the exhaustion taking over him. The world was blurry and his legs were refusing to carry him any longer. But Holmes needed him. He couldn't leave him like this, could he? He slumped in the nearby armchair with a sigh. What else could he do? He already tried everything. His head rolled onto his chest and he fell asleep for a few blissful moments, only to find himself woken up by a knock on the door. Mrs. Hudson entered the bedroom, followed by Mary. Oh God, how could he have forgotten about letting Mary know what was happening? He expected she would be furious at him. He had promised that his exploits with Holmes were over – no more adventures, no more danger. And there he was, picking up the pieces after the last case, and not doing too well in it.

'Mary, I…' he whispered, not quite sure how to finish. _I'm sorry_ sounded rather pathetic and he was getting sick of having to apologize her for his lack of responsibility. She met his eyes and as he stood up, she unexpectedly drew him into a close embrace, rubbing his back with her hand.

'Are you all right?' she asked, meeting his gaze.

'Yes….yes. I'm all right.' He mumbled, although that was far from the truth. Having to watch Holmes suffer so much was torture for him.

'He doesn't look too good, does he?' asked Mary, looking at the bundle of sweat-soaked hair and bandages lying amongst the crumpled bed sheets.

'No,' was the only reply she got. Watson was desperately trying to avoid having to tell her what happened. All he wanted was to forget it.

'You need to rest John. Go and get some sleep.' She grabbed his hand and led him out of the room, not paying attention to any of his protests. They stepped out of the bedroom, and she closed the door quietly, although she was sure that it made no difference to Holmes.

'Mary I can't just sleep and leave him and what if…'

'If something John, you will be the first to know. I'll go and sit there with him and you rest. Please.' Watson knew she was right. In the state that he was currently in, he could probably do more damage that good: with his unfocused mind, shaky hands and blurry vision.

'But you know what he's like. He will panic if he wakes up and I'm not there and he will be rude again and annoying and he will…'

'John. I've handled worse than spoilt detectives, trust me.'

'Ok..ok.' He didn't need to say it twice and having kissed him delicately, Mary was gone.

XXXXXXX

As a governess, Mary experienced all sorts of unusual behavior, but Holmes would always remain a mystery to her. Even John had difficulty guessing what was going on in that brilliant head of his, so she knew she could never hope to know herself. Arrogant, cocky, reckless and rude – a perfect description for Sherlock Holmes, she thought. Until now. When a man is as sick as he was, there is no room for pretending and putting on masks and all one is left with is vulnerability and fear. She never thought she would see these in Holmes.

She picked up a book that John must have been reading before she came. She didn't find it too entertaining, but what was there to do, apart from changing the cold compress on Holmes's head from time to time? She was interrupted when Holmes woke with a start, with a quiet yell. She supposed that she should check whether he was ok. Of course, as far ok, as he could be in his current predicament.

'Watson…'t hurts…' he mumbled, his eyes half-closed and his hand hanging in mid-air as if he was searching for something out of his reach. 'Watson?' No reply. 'W-Watson?' Maybe Mary was imagining things, but she could swear that she heard panic creeping around the edges of Holmes's voice.

'John is not here. What do you need?' she sat on the edge of the bed, making sure not to hurt the injured detective any more.

'Watson…' Holmes mumbled in reply.

'I told you he's not here, but I can bring you whatever you need.' She decided the best way to act around Holmes was to treat him like one of the children she used to take care of.

'No. I need…Watson.' Mary was slightly confused, not knowing how to react. Maybe he was just having another semi-lucid dream? 'Why did he leave?...Haven't done anything…Promise…'

'No of course you haven't done anything. None of it is your fault, I'm sure.' All she could do for him at the moment was to appear as reassuring as she could be.

'Then w-why…did he…leave m-me?' Holmes clutched a fistful of bedding in his right hand and Mary realized how tenses his whole body has become. His voice was quiet and shaky, and his eyes were glued to a spot on the wall opposite.

'He didn't leave you. He's sleeping next door.' She couldn't help, but smile at how childish this man could be at times.

'So…he's coming.. back?' Mary's heart was breaking, because Holmes's voice sounded as if he was about to break down and cry.

'Of course. Why wouldn't he?' Holmes stirred and landed his eyes on her, shooting her a meaningful glance. She didn't have to ask, to realize what the answer would be: he was still upset about John moving out.

'That and…because I tend…to be…' Holmes couldn't believe how difficult putting together sentences could be. His throat felt as if he had spent the last few hours swallowing razors and catching air was something of a problem as well. '…to be…rather problematic.'

Only now could Mary truly appreciate how ill Holmes had to be. He never admitted he was wrong, he never apologized, asked or thanked and for sure, had the circumstances been different, he would not have called himself problematic.

'Come on, you're talking rubbish.' She tucked the blankets more tightly around the detective's shoulders as he shivered unexpectedly.

''m not…I want him to be happy…and you, but…' he choked on his own words and started coughing, which sent another wave of pain through his battered body. 'but…but…'

'He'd never leave you, you know. He stays up really late sometimes, just because he's worried that you'll do something silly. No wonder though. Now go back to sleep.'

'Can't….and, um…please don't, don't hate me, ok?' She couldn't believe that he would even dare think this. Yes, he was annoying, rude and mean, but John told her that it was simply the way he was. He did not mean to hurt anyone, he just didn't know how to deal with people in any other way. She could not say she was pleased to see Holmes in this state, but at least know her suspicions about him having bits of humanity left in him, were confirmed.

'Ok, under one condition: you stop making illogical assumptions like those about people hating you.' She liked the nice and kind Holmes, but the sooner they got his normal self back, the better. Instead of gracing this with an answer he grunted, as Mary rearranged the pillows, causing him to shift a bit. She sat in the chair next to Holmes to keep him company and left her book lying idly on the table.

'Can't sleep…the bloody thing hurts…' he whispered through his clenched teeth. Now Mary admired John even more. He had to deal with situations like this one on a daily basis, watching all the suffering and all those worried families and she could hardly stop herself from breaking to pieces now.

'Let me think of something…' she said quietly, grabbing his hand in hers.

XXXXXXX

The first though of Watson's when he woke up, was whether Mary and Holmes managed to fall out with each other already. He got up immediately and headed towards Holmes's bedroom, worried about what he might find there. As he opened the door, Mary did not even seem to notice and Holmes looked more or less asleep. And she was singing him quietly a soothing song. Wait, she was doing what? Watson couldn't believe his eyes. Holmes had not asked her out of the room, neither had he shouted obscenities at anyone. Had he not been so immensely worried about Holmes, he would even have thought the scene to be a beautiful picture. Seeing that his help was not much needed at the moment, he picked up his book and started looking at the words absent mindedly.

**Basically, I'm sorry about it being horrible. I know it is, but I didn't want to wait too long and then forget completely about the story, so I had to publish that.**

**Tell me if you agree, tell me if you don't (which I suspect is not likely), through REVIEWS and let me know whether you want more, or whether I should finally shut up ;)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks for all the favs, follows and especially reviews and all the feedback. I love you all and appreciate it! **

**Sorry about the delay, but life and Aristotle keep getting in the way (not that I mind Aristotle). **

**There's another one and I really hope you like it ;)**

The next time he woke, all he could see were blurred shapes. Shapes that were spinning, as was the entire room. One of the shapes, standing next to the bed was gesticulating and talking quickly, but Holmes couldn't understand exactly what was being said. He could only make out some words. '_Got higher…can't do much…never wake up…' _He would try to listen more closely if he wasn't so cold. And if he could breathe. And if the room wasn't spinning so quickly, making him feel nauseous. And if his side didn't hurt that much. And if he wasn't so absolutely and overwhelmingly _cold_. He never liked cold things. Other boys at school used to hurl snowballs at him, he once slipped on an icy day and dislocated his wrist at university and during his career as a detective he learnt that…dead people were _cold_. He always shrugged off the possibility of dying. In fact, he never really considered it as an actual possibility. Until now. He was the great Sherlock Holmes and he survived dozens of attempts on his life but he felt he was going to be brought down by stupid fever. He didn't fear death itself. Death was nothing and nothing can't hurt you. But there were too many unfinished things. It would be _illogical_ for him to abandon it all like this. Conclusions had to be reached. Equations needed results, not just mere variables. Even the thought of doing something so unreasonable, dying now, made him whimper .

Having heard the sound, Watson concluded that Holmes had to be awake. Surprisingly, the fever has risen again, though he thought it had broken already. Now Holmes was there, as delirious as before, but conscious and staring at him, trying to focus his vision.

'Are you in any pain?' Watson was by his side immediately, with a morphine-filled syringe in his hand. Holmes shoved his hand away. The damn thing wasn't doing any good anyway.

'No…no…'_ He was_, but there were more important things to deal with before he…'I don't want to spend the last moments of my life sleeping. I…'

'Shut up. Don't say that.' Watson snapped at him, moving away from the bed and towards the window. Holmes was delirious, of course he would be talking rubbish. But Watson noticed that his eyes have turned glassy and he shouldn't even be awake with that temperature. What if…Holmes had a point?

'Can we talk?' Watson's heart started beating as it never has before. Last month, he was attending to a sick boy. Hours before he died he started rambling about school and his friends and family and all he wanted to do was _talk_…_God_, Holmes _shouldn't_ even be awake. The detective's rattled breathing was the only audible sound in the room, but Watson had to control himself, not to hyperventilate as well. He sat on the edge of Holmes's bed, took the washcloth off his forehead and replaced it with a new one.

'We can. What do you need?'

'Behind the painting in the living room, next to the fireplace there is a safe. The code is 0511. When I'm d…just open it later, take out the envelope and read what's inside. And…do you think we should get Mycroft? We were never that close, but he helped us out last time and it seems reasonable to say thanks.' Watson was amazed at how steady Holmes's voice was. _He shouldn't be rambling like this. Shut it Holmes. Rest._ The doctor had to focus all his efforts on not letting his panic show.

'You can tell him yourself once you feel better.' The doctor cut Holmes off before he could go any further. 'How are you feeling?' That was a stupid question, but he needed to take both their minds off those horrible scenarios Holmes was making up. Watson's question was not graced with a reply. Holmes just shot him his 'do-you-really-think-I'm-an-idiot?-well,-I'm-not' glance.

'You are an intelligent man Watson. And a doctor. You've seen people die before. So have I. And I read things. I even saw my father…well, not exactly because I wasn't allowed to…

'Holmes!' This was not good. Watson couldn't get the image of the young boy out of his head. The animation in his voice and that _need_ to get out everything he had to say before...And now Holmes suddenly felt like talking about things he used to avoid at all cost.

'He came back from India, with a fever. Nobody would see him when he was dying, they didn't want to catch it and then…

'Holmes…'

'Let me finish. And so he died alone. And then Mycroft came and told me. And I didn't even cry at first. Most peculiar. What an intriguing child I was…But you lied to me.'

'What?' Watson had difficulty following what the detective was saying. He was spitting out words at a speed of a machine gun. Then he needed to pause for a moment. He leaned against the pillows and took a deep breath. It sent a shudder through his weak form, as even the air felt cold and the pain in his side intensified with the sudden movement.

'Well, you said I'd die alone and it seems…' Holmes raised his hand to point at Watson, to indicate that he would not pass in solitude after all. The doctor felt rage rising inside him. Maybe Holmes's body _should_ give out if the temperature doesn't go down, maybe the gunshot _should_ have killed him straight away, but since when did Sherlock Holmes care about what he _should_ be doing? Why was he doing this to himself? Before he could stop himself, he grabbed Holmes's wrist and violently pinned it to the bed, brushing against the bandages accidentally. Holmes groaned at the sudden violation and squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment. Watson regretted his reflex immediately.

'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…'

'I know. I'm sorry…about being a pain again.' The detective suddenly became very interested in the painting hanging on the wall opposite, avoiding eye contact with Watson. 'As always, but…'

There was something Watson needed to ask. Desperately.

'Why are you suddenly so _keen_ on dying old boy?' Maybe, hopefully Holmes was simply delirious, and not acting as a man in his right mind. Or maybe he really _knew._ Watson's extensive medical knowledge told him it was the latter, but he desperately refused to admit it to himself.

'I'm not, but… maybe if I don't then…one day I'll find myself _on my own_ in an alley, bleeding to death or with my guts all over the place like those poor girls in Whitechapel or…And now you're here and even Mary is here…And I'm bloody cold and it bloody hurts and, and I feel like I have this massive stone in my chest and…Don't think I'm considering this on an emotional level. I simply think that…this option maximizes utility and ergo is the most…reasonable one to choose.' He _was _considering it on an emotional level.And he was getting increasingly paralyzed with fear. Or maybe it was just circulation not working as it should.

Watson delicately turned Holmes's head away from the painting, so that they were looking each other in the eye, and put a firm grip on his friend's shoulder. Holmes had propped himself against the pillows, so that he was sitting up. Watson delicately pushed him back down and tucked the covers around his shoulders.

'Not an option Holmes. And yes, it does register on an emotional level. You will…No. _We_ will get through this.'

'But it feels so wrong and it hurts and _death (oh Lord, he actually said it)_ is the only logical and valid conclusion. But…I want you to know that it does make a considerable difference, having someone on whom I can thoroughly rely. So thank you. And…oh God W-watson…oh God…oh God…' Holmes grabbed Watson's arm with all the strength he had left in him and the other man tried to hold his friend up, as he sensed panic in the detective's voice. '0511, rem-member'. Holmes slumped in Watson's arms and the doctor immediately reached for his wrist to check for pulse. It was still there, but very weak, and maybe it was just Watson's imagination but it seemed to be slowing.

Watson was no longer a doctor. All that was left was a bundle of emotions and Holmes's best friend. The detective was still breathing, but now he was again locked in a little world of his own. He started clutching at the wound again, trying to rip off the bandages and he pushed the duvet off himself, as if he was trying to get away. Watson held him firmly in place, his touch remaining firm but comforting. He could no longer keep the tears from coming. He was desperate. Holmes had minutes, maybe not even that. There _had_ to be something he could do.

'Come on old boy, one more miracle…please.' Watson shook Holmes's shoulders delicately, which only resulted in an uncontrolled sob of pain from the other man. He started trashing and knocked a glass of the bedside table. It smashed to pieces on the ground with a loud noise.

'Sssshhh…ssshhh…it's okay. You're ok. You'll be fine…' Watson cradled the detective to his chest, hoping that this way, he won't be able to slip away into nothingness. 'You _selfish, selfish bastard._ Don't you dare do that. You have no right to…to…Do you hear me?' Holmes didn't.

A few minutes later he was just lying calmly in Watson's arms with his eyes closed, no strength left in him to struggle. His head was leaning against the doctor's shoulder, his features somehow relaxed. If the doctor wasn't keeping his hand on the detective's pulse, he would almost feel relieved that his friend finally managed to find peace. But he knew better. When he shifted Holmes's body onto his lap, there was no reaction at all. When he tried to slap his cheek, there was no reaction at all. When he begged Holmes do open his eyes in desperation, there was no reaction at all.

Holmes probably couldn't hear him anyway, but there were still unsaid things between them.

'You know…you're the most annoying, irresponsible, cold-hearted bastard I ever knew. And…you always make mess and blow things up and steal my clothes and try to sabotage my relationship with Mary….. And you're my _best friend_.'

_And, dear Lord, I think your heart just stopped. _

**So, I'm done with another chapter.**

**Having killed Holmes again, I'm starting to wonder whose side I'm really on…Well, I guess you just have to forgive my depressed little mind. But fear not, when it gets un-depressed I tend to make miracles happen :DDD and I actually already have one in mind. **

**And do you know what helps with getting un-depressed (apart from Aristotle, that is)? **

**REVIEWS! Pretty please?**


	8. Chapter 8

**OK, thanks for all the reviews, and in reply: I killed Holmes because a) I am an evil human being, b) life is being mean so instead of hurling objects at fellow humans, I can actually take it out on a fictional character, as lovely as he is. Just to let you know, I'm not THAT messed up, simply mocking you. And on the plus side…just read on and see what happens, because reviews and Aristotle have indeed managed to improve my well-being. **

_John? Where are you? I'm still cold and you were so warm and comfortable…Stop it, old friend. Why are you crying? I hope it's not because of me, I'd hate to be a burden yet again. Now, I should probably use my powers of deduction to find out where I am. It's black. And cold. And I can't feel anything. This can't mean anything good, I hope I'm not dead. But I should be, shouldn't I? Any other option would be rather unreasonable. At least it doesn't hurt anymore. _

_However…John is sad and if I'm dead, who's there to comfort him? I can't leave him like this when he needs me! _

_Watson! Watson, what happened? How can I help? Oh, but it appears he cannot hear me. This is most distressing. Why is it so dark? _

_Wait Sherlock, wait…There's a light over there. Maybe that's where John is? I should probably go and check, there is no time to lose. _And so Holmes started moving towards the bright spot at the end of the tunnel.

XXXXXXX

_And I think your heart just stopped beating_.

Or it hasn't quite, but Watson was sure that it would any second now. The slow heartbeat was irregular, as if it wasn't sure if it was allowed to be there at all. As Mary entered the room, her husband was sitting on the bed, holding Holmes's limp body in his arms and fruitlessly trying to suppress the tears streaming down his face.

'John…' she whispered, gently rubbing his back, as she sat next to the doctor. 'Is he…?' her voice trailed off, as Watson sobbed quietly and shook his head, knowing how the question would conclude.

'Not yet, that is,' he added after considering the words for a moment. Mary felt that she was somehow invading her husband's privacy. There would be time for comforting later. For now, he deserved those few moments with his friend.

Watson didn't even notice the door closing. His whole world was suddenly reduced to the bundle of bandages and sweat-soaked hair, lying in his arms. Suddenly, everything that Gladstone had to go through, seemed like praiseworthy attempts to better modern science rather than pointless experiments of a bored mind. The idea of a barter system instead of stealing clothes suddenly started looking legitimate enough and his anger at Holmes's attempts to sabotage his relationship with Mary turned into compassion for his friend who must have simply felt lonely. How Watson wished that he had said all those things, instead of leaving the detective on his own, with no one but a dog to lean on… One thing he feared was that Holmes would pass away thinking of himself as a burden, and not knowing how much he meant for the doctor.

'If you could just stop this and …come back Hol…Sherlock…Maybe you could even talk me into going to Chichester or something. God…if you could just…get better and stop dying on me!'

_Stop this? Stop what? Dying? I'm…I'm not…I can't be…I'm coming to help you…I'm…_

'Just come back…just stop it! STOP IT!'

_Fine mother hen. Just stop yelling. It's fine. I'll come back, I'll come back. _Having cast one last glance at the light in the tunnel, Holmes turned around and started walking back into the darkness.

XXXXXXX

Mrs. Hudson came into the bedroom with a tray of food and tea. She was closely followed by Mary, who had been pacing around the living room since she last saw John. He had not moved an inch since then. The bags under his eyes have grown bigger and he looked even more tired than before, but he still seemed determined, constantly talking to the patient who probably couldn't even hear him and his grip on Holmes has not loosened at all.

'John, you need to eat something. We've brought you some steak and tea.'

'Thank you, I'm not hungry. Nor thirsty.' He replied, without looking up at his visitors.

'John…' Mary whispered, desperate to make sure that her husband doesn't fall ill himself because of the exhaustion. 'John. You've been sitting here for four hours.'

'So?'

'Dr. Hoffman is next door. He could stay here while you get some rest and eat properly. You should really…'

'No.' Watson's eyes were still focused on the window looking out onto the back street. It had already turned dark outside, but he had not even made an effort to get up and turn the lights on. As unreasonable as it was, he somehow felt that the moment he let go, Holmes would slip away once and for all. His heart was still beating, now a bit more steadily, but his temperature was still high and he remained unresponsive. Watson knew that Holmes would rather be dead that get some sort of brain damage. Not that he could live with that for long having been locked up in a dungeon for 'becoming possessed' or 'losing his mind' as the authorities would undoubtedly call it. 'No,' the doctor repeated more firmly, hoping that he would be left in peace this time. Instead he was approached by Mary who tried to move one of his hands away from Holmes's shoulder. 'Mary, please. I can't. I mustn't.'

_What's going on? Why are you saying this? I really don't mind, you need to look after yourself, mother hen. Just go, I'll be fine._

'Why?'

'It's my fault. It's all my fault. I could have done something faster, so that the bloody infection wouldn't have set in. Or…or I could have warned him in the first place. If he dies, it's my fault…'

_Don't say this. Of course it's not. Stop it Watson. You're my best friend, remember? You've done all you could. And I'm fine…well, that is rather debatable, but still…I'll be fine as long as you're safe and happy…_

'And he already died on me. Twice. First Heilbronn, and that damn hook …lord, I shouldn't have left him, as I left him now…' Watson decided he needed to stop talking. Otherwise, he risked experiencing a breakdown, right here, right now.

_WHAT? Mother hen, are you out of your mind? You really, really mustn't think that. If anybody's, it was my fault. I should have been more careful, I should have come up with a better way of getting the notebook. Don't you even dare blame yourself. Ow, ow…oops, it hurts again. Some opium would do. Wait…I'm really comfy again. And…for the love of God, who is hugging me?! Physical contact with other human beings is not welcome! I told you a million times! Who would dare…?!_

'Doctor Watson, let go of him and get some rest. I beg of you! You can do no good if you carry on like this,' this time it was Mrs. Hudson who spoke.

_Oh, so it's you Watson. Ok, forget it, I don't mind. Physical contact with best friend is bearable…quite nice in fact. But my reason dictates that you should indeed get some rest, old fellow._

No reply came from the doctor. Mrs. Hudson and Mary looked at each other meaningfully. Mrs. Watson left the tray on a chest of drawers standing next to the door and the women left again. The doctor wasn't allowed peace for long. Dr. Hoffman soon entered the room with a kit in his hand and a sad smile dancing on his lips.

'Dr. Watson. You do realize you are doing your friend no good and that you can only damage your own health in the process.'

The physician looked down at Holmes. Watson might not have been paying attention to it anymore, but the detective was breathing more comfortably again. _He was breathing._ After his heart almost stopped.

_You are doing good John. Why else would I want to come back. Just give me a minute. I'm still walking and walking and this tunnel seems to be never-ending. _

'_John_, from what I've heard from the lovely ladies next door the fever seems to have broken. He should get better.'

'He's still not responding to anything.' Watson mumbled. He didn't care about all his medical knowledge. He stopped paying attention to the detective's pulse. He was still breathing and he _had_ to wake up. There was no other option.

_I'm trying Watson, I really am. Ow, ow, ow…this is getting worse. _

'Give him some time. And give some yourself as well.'

He _didn't_ have time. Holmes's heart almost stopped again. He said his damn goodbyes, he saw it in his eyes and heard it in his voice. His friend almost died again. He was never leaving him again, never ever letting go….He wiped his wet eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. _Four hours. Going on five. No response at all._ Another quiet sob escaped his lips.

'Who…d-died mother hen?' Holmes said upon seeing the distress of his friend through a hazy mist, as soon as he lifted his eyelids with great effort.

'If you do that again Holmes, I'll kill you, bury you, dig up the grave and then kill you once more. Oh…and it is indeed a welcome change to see you're with us.'

**Done. Dusted. Back to Aristotle. Bits of his **_**Politics**_** are a good read indeed (yes, I am weird but you already noticed, didn't you?)**

**Please, REVIEW and give me motivation to write some more. Unless of course, my writing turned into absolute crap that just litters the Internet. If so, do tell me as well, so that I don't waste neither my, nor your time.**

**Once again, pretty please REVIEW and cheerio! **


	9. Chapter 9

**Surprise, I'm still alive! **

**I'm completely and utterly sorry for the late update. I think I deserve a metal hook in the shoulder for that, combined with the fact that the following chapter is crap. I'm sorry. I just didn't think that dragging it out for much longer made sense and I couldn't come up with a nice way to finish this off. This is just cheesy and not in character at all and stupid and I hate it, but anyway…**

**This piece of crap happened. I'm sorry. REALLY.**

'I meant it you idiot. If you do that again, I think I will actually kill you,' Watson murmured having settled back into his chair. 'You're such a selfish bastard, you…'

'I've heard that before, old boy. Assimilated and understood.' Holmes was still exhausted, in pain and running a fever, but his brain cleared a bit and he could actually distinguish shapes in the room at this point, instead of seeing one massive blur.

'Then do something about it. The next time I might not be there, what happens then?' Watson's voice sounded accusing, not because he minded looking after Holmes, but merely because he was hoping to knock some sense into his friend's thick skull. Holmes's reaction was unexpected. He curled in on himself, as if somebody just hit him.

_The next time I might not be there_. Holmes hated being constantly reminded of the fact that Watson could just abandon him like this, for a woman! They always complicated things and confused him! The doctor was right, and because of Mary he would probably end up dead in an alley or a sewer, because there would be nobody there to have his back; not that he could blame her. Watson moved closer to the bed to check what provoked Holmes's reaction. The detective was pulled back from the maze of his own thoughts when he heard a loud thud. The book that Watson was holding fell onto the floor and as Holmes raised his eyes, he realized that the doctor was unsteady on his feet. He reminded him of a drunk, and one that had not seen a bed in a good while.

'You should get some rest, old boy,' Holmes suggested to Watson's surprise. He expected Holmes to plead for him to stay by his side all the time and refuse to be left on his own. 'You look like death. Go on.'

'I can't just leave you here, can I?' Watson replied, his voice making evident that he really wished he could.

'I am feeling much better and I believe that I am past the risk of dying. I'll be fine. Mrs. Hudson is next door. Trust me.' A shadow of a smile crossed Holmes's face, as he addressed the doctor, who was becoming increasingly keen on the idea of sleep.

'Fine. I'll just rest my eyes in the chair for a couple of…'

'Please Watson, this?' he pointed at the said chair. 'They should have those in the Tower and use them as torture devices, they're so incredibly uncomfortable.'

'Truth be told, I can't argue against that. But you need to regain your strength as well. Just call for me if you need anything.'

Watson left, feeling quite ecstatic. Holmes was not dead, he was starting to look like his old non-conformist self and even gave him the permission to rest. Maybe he wasn't such a selfish bastard after all?

XXXXXXX

The next time Holmes woke up it was dark outside again. He didn't miss the sun particularly, but the absence of Watson in the chair next to him made his heart sink a little bit. Was there any better remedy for trauma and pain than the presence of a good friend?

He needed space, he needed to get out of the bed and start living again. For the last few days he experienced nothing but stagnation and he believed that his brain would no longer be able to take this. Holmes was sure that Mother Hen would scold him for leaving his bed, and he was well aware that trying to leave the room on his own might not have been the best idea. But then again, since when did Sherlock Holmes care about what was good for him?

He managed to scramble out of bed somehow, but soon needed to find leverage as he started tumbling to the ground on his unsteady legs. _Take it easy. One step at a time._ For the first few steps his muscles outwardly refused to cooperate, but after a while Holmes's genius brain got the hang of moving, and he was headed for the living room.

He found Watson slumped in the armchair that used to be his when they were still sharing the flat. The armchair that he was always more than welcome to come back to. Now, that Holmes's mind was even clearer, he was fully able to appreciate the poor state in which his friend found himself in. His shirt was wrinkled, he had bags under his eyes and worry and fatigue were painted on his face.

Holmes felt a pang of guilt, having realized that the cause of the doctor's distress must have been the constant vigil that he kept by the detective's side. Had it been a nurse or another doctor, he would only feel reproach towards them, blaming them for the fact that they hadn't helped him to get better earlier…but this? This was Watson, his ever-faithful and long-suffering best friend…He needed him to know that there was always somebody looking out for him as well.

Holmes was not good at dealing with human beings and couldn't think of a way to express his gratitude. First, he thought about flowers, but that was a women's thing, wasn't it? Giving flowers to another self-respecting gentleman would be bizarre. He could give him whiskey, but Watson rarely drank since his engagement. How about just saying 'thank you'? Holmes pondered over that for a while, but he knew that he would only get tongue twisted when trying to put his feelings on a plate in front of anyone, and besides words had this sense of superficiality to them.

And then, he had the simplest, but the most appropriate idea ever.

XXXXXXX

Watson woke up to a strong smell of…something baked and tea. He reasoned that Mary must have come by again to make sure that he didn't run himself down too much when looking after Holmes. He opened his eyes sluggishly, feeling too comfortable to move. For the first time in a while he was able to enjoy a good night's sleep, in a more or less comfortable position. As he stirred, he realized that somebody had tucked him in a thick woolen blanket.

Watson stood up abruptly, looking forward to seeing Mary and enjoying the breakfast in her company. He wasn't surprised to find that he kicked something as made the first step towards the table. The floor was always littered with books, mysterious contraptions that belonged to Holmes, and it wasn't uncommon to stumble across a still and soundless form of Gladstone drooling on the carpet. What came as a surprise however, was that the maltreated object grunted in protest, as if Watson had hurt it terribly.

The mystery solved itself, as he looked down to find Holmes curled up into a ball on his tiger skin rug, holding his own blanket close to his chest and mumbling incoherently to himself. Watson was unsure what to do. On the one hand, the floor was not the best place for a sick man to sleep. On the other hand, it had been a long while since he saw his friend sleep so peacefully, and he considered it a shame to wake him up. He was also surprised that Mary didn't do anything about the detective when she came in with the food and blankets.

The doctor won Watson's internal battle with the friend, and he crouched on the floor next to the sleeping figure.

'Holmes,' he shook his shoulder gently and the only reply he received was a grunt muted by the blanket. 'Old boy, you can't stay here, you need to go back to bed.'

'S'fine mother hen…,' Holmes stopped mid-sentence as fatigue overtook him again and he was interrupted by a yawn. 'Just have some breakfast and I'll stay here and sleep if that's fine with you.'

At first Watson wondered how Holmes knew about the breakfast, but then realized that he probably just smelled the muffins.

'Why are you even here? What were you doing?' Watson's tone was accusing. He trusted Holmes that he could be left on his own without causing trouble and even though he knew it was childish, he felt slightly betrayed that Holmes didn't see fit to call for him when in need of a helping hand.

'I was trying to reach my armchair, but my side started hurting terribly on the way and thought that I could just catch my breath here for a moment.'

Watson scanned the room, and wondered what Holmes was _really_ doing, because his armchair stood right next to his bedroom's door. He must have been somewhere else if he decided to make a stop in the middle of the sitting room. He decided to leave the matter for now and set out to ease his friend's discomfort.

'Are you still in pain? Can I get you anything?' Watson put a hand on Holmes's forehead to check his temperature. The fever seemed to be subsiding and Watson thanked whatever deity was out there to listen to him.

'Morphine please.'

'So that you can get addicted to it again. I'm sorry, but I don't think so.' Watson hung his head low, avoiding Holmes's gaze. He hated himself for refusing Holmes this most fundamental right, but deep inside he knew it was for the better. Knowing that there was no point in arguing, Holmes closed his eyes to block out the light which was only intensifying the discomfort and held the blanket even more tightly.

'That's understandable. When was the last time you ate?'

Watson didn't get to give him a reply, as Mary was led into the room by Mrs. Hudson. She outstretched her arms towards Watson, who quickly pulled her into an embrace.

'How are you, John? Is he any better?' only as she finished the sentence did notice the fragile figure resting on the rug. She really found it difficult to accustom to the idea that they were really dealing with another human being, not a representative of another indestructible and emotionless species.

'I'm good, thank you. He seems to be getting better as well. Oh, and why didn't you wake me up when you were here earlier?'

The reply he received was a confused expression on her face and a questioning look.

'I haven't been here since the last time I left. Where did you get the idea from?'

'Well…the food and the blankets and tea…' Watson looked for a reply towards Mrs. Hudson. She just shook her head with a blank expression on her face, indicating that she was also not responsible for anything.

'I heard someone in the kitchen last night and I thought it was you doctor. The three of us were the only people in the house last night.' As Mrs. Hudson was speaking, Watson's gaze immediately drifted towards his sleeping friend. He found it very difficult to believe that Holmes would be so kind as to prepare breakfast for him and even treat him with a blanket, let alone in the state he was in, but at the moment it appeared to be the only reasonable explanation. Despite his best efforts, the doctor smiled to himself, as all three of them understood what Holmes must have done. For anyone else it wouldn't be a great deal, but Sherlock Holmes _never_ did anything for anyone. He played the game for the game's own sake, not anybody else's. _But not today. Maybe you're not such a selfish bastard after all. _

Watson didn't even notice as the two women left the sitting room. To his surprise, Holmes hasn't stirred throughout the entire conversation and the only sign of life that he gave was his muted monologue. Watson took the tray with the muffins and tea and set it down on the floor next to the fireplace.

'Hey, old boy…' he shook Holmes's shoulder gently. 'You should really eat something yourself. Wake up.'

Holmes reluctantly lifted himself up onto his elbows. The abrupt movement provoked a wave of overwhelming nausea, and Holmes was disappointed to find that the room was spinning again.

'Easy, easy,' Watson whispered right into his ear, as he gently helped him upwards and helped Holmes lean against a stash of pillows that he gathered from around the house and put on the floor. After the Earth stopped shaking, Holmes actually managed to muster a smile, knowing that it would put Watson at ease.

Watson pushed the plate towards him, having taken a bite of the muffin himself. Only then did the detective realize how famished he was, and took no time to bite into the food himself.

'I'm impressed, it is actually edible,' he mused to himself and his attention was diverted only when Watson snorted.

'Edible? They're actually quite good, old boy. I'm moving back in, provided that you cook.' They both laughed, stopping abruptly as they realized that this possibility was no more than just a quip or a distant memory.

'Watson…'

'Mhm?'

'Well…um, thank you I guess. And I'm sorry…about not being careful.'

'It's all right you selfish…no wait, it's all right, my dearest friend.'

**See? I told you it was crap. The deal with the hook still stands, feel free to punish me for this disgraceful piece of writing. Alternatively, I can try to change it a bit if you hate it. Let me know.**

**Anyway, since I think that this is the last chapter, I wanted to give a massive THANK YOU for all those who read the story. You have been amazing and without your support, those slow updates would turn into no updates at all. I really can't tell you how much it means for me to have somebody appreciate my work. For some reason I feel really sad about being done with it. I enjoyed writing it, and you made it so much more worthwhile. THANK YOU AGAIN! *sends love***

**On the upside, even though life is catching up with me again, I have an idea for a new story. I'm planning to whump Holmes again, just because life sucks and I can, soooo…**

**THANK YOU. I'm officially done. **


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